


And all her body pasture to mine eyes

by wyntre



Series: Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: David Tennant said slut rights, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:12:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19802605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntre/pseuds/wyntre
Summary: Hyacinth and Apollo, Achilles and Patroclus pale in comparison. All the lovers of Greek Mythology are simply facsimiles.Or; Aziraphale has had enough of Crowley's tempting.





	And all her body pasture to mine eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Love and Sleep" by Algernon Charles Swinburne.
> 
> Mild, non-explicit smut.

Crowley was just  _ there _ , sprawled on the sofa; lithe body having shed its signature coat and waistcoat, and he was down to his shirtsleeves; and good God Aziraphale was having trouble keeping focus on what he was doing.

What was he doing exactly? He was drinking, they were both drinking. They had been all afternoon. A celebration of sorts, to mark the averted Apocalypse, and because they'd almost lost each other. And Aziraphale was pretty sure that the wine was a lot stronger than the bottle suggested. They were talking about nothing in particular, some loose discussion about the Rest of Their Lives and whether they wanted to retire to the South Downs; but Aziraphale couldn't really make sense of the conversation. 

Crowley shifted in his seat, long legs opening a little wider, and Aziraphale's mouth suddenly went dry. He was sure Crowley knew what he was doing; sure he had a reason beyond just being a demon out to tempt. 

Aziraphale, who too had shed his outer layers and was simply wearing a button up with the sleeves rolled back, decided to join Crowley on the sofa, acutely aware of their proximity and the heat emanating from the demon. He put a hand on Crowley's thigh and Crowley looked at him, shocked.

"Angel?" The word caught in his throat. He was bright red, embarrassed almost. Aziraphale hoped he hadn't misread the situation. 

"You know, Crowley, you're always tempting me," Aziraphale placed two fingers under Crowley's chin and brought him in closer.

"Well I… ?" Crowley couldn’t finish the sentence. He was a  _ demon _ for Satan's sake, tempting was part of the damn job description after all. 

"Come on, my dear, you didn't mean lunch at the Ritz when you suggested lunch."

Crowley’s golden eyes went round at the implication. “What?”

Aziraphale leaned in closer. "Remember Rome?" He placed a soft kiss on the corner of the demon's mouth that went straight through Crowley like a bolt of lightning. Oh God did he remember Rome, and the oysters; and how Aziraphale had emphasised the word 'tempt' like it was a fucking hymn or something. And how they'd had far too much house brown at hole-in-the-wall bars as they stumbled back to the insula Aziraphale was staying in. From there, the memory went to flashes of light and feelings of divine energy that could have probably split the city in half. He could still feel Aziraphale inside him, and outside, and everywhere. 

Then there was the Bastille, where Crowley had found himself crowded up against the cell wall by an angel who, if you'd chanced to see his wings, was a little more grey than he would have you believe; and who was chasing kisses down the demon's long body whilst the Revolution raged outside. 

They hadn't spoken about it, or rather, they had in glances and a brief moment in the Regency period where an inhumanely wealthy Crowley had resided in a fantastic manor as a 'confirmed bachelor with his Particular Friend Mr. Fell.' The townspeople knew but they didn't say anything, because Mr. Anthony J Crowley had a habit of hissing at anyone who even looked at his Particular Friend funny. And a single evening in 1941, when demonic intervention had thrown off a German bomber and Crowley had offered a startled Aziraphale a lift home. They'd parked down a quiet street, the Bentley's windows darkened and a cloud of illusion shielding them from the outside world. And they'd kissed, deep and heated; fingers fumbling at clothing and  _ damn humans for inventing buttons.  _

But it had been a long time since. And Crowley wasn't sure if Aziraphale still wanted him in the way that he had back then. Still, there was a warm hand on his thigh and a lingering burning sensation where Aziraphale had kissed him. Sometimes, Crowley mused, he thought too much about everything but especially about a Particular Angel and how the light slanting through the window illuminated him with fire and formed a halo around his head - making him all the more radiant than he'd ever been. 

Still, if he was honest with himself, he was trying to tempt; he had been since the last time he and Aziraphale had, well, y'know. The angel was still close, and Crowley could smell him, all copper pennies and strawberries. 

"I remember much more than Rome, angel," Crowley's voice was dark, slitted golden eyes hooded and lustful.

"That's what I thought," Aziraphale boldly ran his hand up to the crease between Crowley's growing Effort and hip. Crowley made a strangled noise and abandoned pretense. He covered Aziraphale's soft, pliable mouth with his own and kissed him so thoroughly that the angel felt as if he'd been set alight by Holy Fire. 

"Do you remember the back seat of the Bentley during the Blitz?" Crowley bit the soft flesh of Aziraphale's neck and lapped at it, causing redness to bloom under his ministrations. The angel nodded, breathless and trembling. "If anyone has tempted anyone, it's been you angel, always you." 

"But you're a demon, tempting is what you do," Aziraphale managed to gasp out as Crowley's teeth grazed the shell of his ear. "You've always tempted me."

"Trusssst me, angel, I never set out to." That was a lie, both knew it. But Aziraphale was too caught up in the feel of Crowley lips against the junction between his neck and shoulder to say anything beyond  _ oh good Lord.  _

Aziraphale ghosted his hand over the front of Crowley's unholy tight trousers. "Shall we revisit Rome?" The angel palmed Crowley and the demon saw the same stars he helped hang a millennia ago. 

"I think we've some catching up to do," Crowley growled, advancing Aziraphale back against the arm of the loveseat and straddling him. "Averting the Apocalypse and all that." Huge black wings unfurled from behind Crowley, and all of a sudden, Aziraphale was acutely reminded of the fact that Crowley had once been an angel, and possibly the most perfect of all God's creations. Even more so than Lucifer had been. "After all, I appear to have succeeded in tempting you."

In an instant, their clothes were gone; and Crowley could feel every inch of the gently curved, plump body beneath him. 

"You didn't need to try, Crowley. You just had to ask me." The demon groaned at these words and licked his way down Aziraphale's chest, lingering over the rounded belly that he adored so much. Seventy-seven years of guarding, and Aziraphale was all but coming apart and they hadn't even really started. The room shook, and electricity sizzled through the air, and an angel and a demon, who were both a little more Fallen and a little more Risen than they would have you believe, wrapped themselves in ebony feathers and moved together. 

By some demonic intervention, Crowley found Aziraphale slick and open beneath him, wantonly begging and pleading, his Effort a tantalisingly thick cock that rested heavily against his stomach. Crowley's mouth went dry at the sight and he wrapped his lips about the glistening head. Aziraphale arched off the sofa at the contact, and it was all he could do to stop himself coming then and there. The demon pulled off with a pop and a smirk that sent shockwaves through Aziraphale.

_ Please  _ the angel all but begged with his eyes.  _ Please I need you. _

Never one to deny his angel anything, Crowley slipped into velvet heat and his head span. The world retracted to a single point in time, then dissipated and turned to static and endless light and the heart of a dying star. He was Hyacinth, Aziraphale was Apollo and even the greatest lovers in all of Greek Mythology did not, could not compare. 

* * *

Later, when they curled up together; Aziraphale's tremendous white wings shielding them from the outside world, and Crowley's golden eyes found Aziraphale's stormy eyes in the last rays of fading sunlight; a whispered confession tumbled from Crowley's lips. 

"I love you."

Aziraphale smiled contentedly. "I know"


End file.
